


And All the Lovers that E'er I Had...

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All the Lonely People, Gen, Lonely Hearts, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: New Years Eve, 2016 into 2017. A year all are happy to see depart...Mycroft and Lestrade no less than anyone else.The title is taken from a single line of the song "The Parting Glass," a song almost as common at New Years as "Auld Lang Syne." The verse goes: Oh, all the comrades that e'er I had are sorry for my going away, and all the lovers that e'er I had would bid me one more day to stay. But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not, I'll gently rise and gently call: good night and joy be with you all." I suspect I have used it before. I suspect I will use it again, particularly for such sweet, lonely souls as Mycroft and Lestrade.May we all have a happy new year, clean and fresh as snow on pine, decked with the joy of shouting crows and blue jays, and scented with the hope of a coming spring.





	

It had been a bugger of a year. Even Sherlock admitted as much, though he did point out the birth of Rosemary Watson as one redeeming blessing among the sorry lot. The blows that had followed her birth more than stripped away much of the joy of her arrival, and the resolutions that had followed had changed life entirely. And so, when Molly Hooper, of all people, declared in wild rebellion that Sherlock would hold a New Years party at his house, and such of his friends as had survived the chaos of the last months would attend, well... People found themselves obeying her decree, unsure why, but needing the excuse. They drifted to 221B Baker Street in ones and twos; occasionally in little eddies, as had several of Sherlock's "Irregulars." They marched up the narrow little stairs and landed in the sitting room, where there was a fire burning on the hearth, or they loitered in the kitchen, with its intimidating muddle of lab-ware and coffee cups. There was even a gaggle who took up residence in Sherlock's loo, bums growing sore and tired perching on the edge of the bathtub. Rather than leave when someone needed the john, they averted their eyes and carried on soothing conversations and handed out glasses of brandy and scotch as consolation prizes. 

"Who knew Sherlock had so many...friends," Mycroft murmured to Lestrade from his vantage place by the kitchen window looking over Mrs. Hudson's bins. He cradled a common mug in his hand filled up with cheap brandy. The mug was the sort people could have made up on order, and said, "Sherlock Holmes--he's a man, and good at it." Greg, who knew the history of that quote, and even that it had first referenced him--though, as usual, under the wrong name--smiled into his own mug, which he suspected was a gift from Molly--a kitten sitting on a skull, each with a pink bow around the neck. 

"I'm not sure if they're friends so much as collectibles," he pointed out, soothingly. "He only gloms onto them when they display some unexpected skill, knowledge, or contact he considers useful. The same could be said about all of us--present company excluded."

Mycroft glanced around broodily, sipped his cup again, then sighed. "Even I only qualify for the advantages I can offer. Which does leave me unsure how many years in future I will be welcome at such revels as this--or even informed of them."

Greg scoffed, and shook his head. "Oh, get off it, mate. You two will never be besties, in the usual sense--but you know he loves you."

Mycroft bowed over the cup, then. Voice sober he said, "Yes. I...do know that." He looked back up again, and twitched uneasily, surrounded by the chattering, sweating mob. "It's quite warm in here."

"Aye, it is. This many people can reduce the heat-bill in no time." Greg looked around, then got a wicked grin. He turned, and hoisted the kitchen window, and gestured grandly toward the opening. "Voila--a balcony for your Royal Holmesiness."

Mycroft hesitated, then leaned into the cool air moving in from the alley. "Oh. My.  I ought not..."

"Bugger all 'oughts.' Here, lemme give you a hand out." Greg offered one hand, and steadied the other man as he stepped gracefully over the sill. Such long legs...like a crane...And weren't cranes supposed to be good luck? Greg was ready to take such good omens as life offered after the last year...even Mycroft Holmes as an elegant crane stepping gracefully out onto the fire escape beyond. He followed after, less gracefully, but with equal relief at the cool air. He pushed the window sash down, to save heat for the rest of the party.

The dull roar of Sherlock's party fell away, and the sounds of London rose up in replacement. Mr. Chatterjee had on Bollywood music, and a steady flow of holiday makers ducking in for a chicken tikka masala wrap to stave off starvation before midnight. Down on the corner a one-man band was busking, singing carols and soft pop-rock classics. And down the alleyway, one building over and one storey up, three women occupied the neighboring rooftop, singing in tight harmony.

"Amazing Grace," Mycroft murmured, considering their close chording. "Given the past year, I suppose it is reasonable to suggest that we only came through by grace alone."

"Aye. I hear you there," Lestrade agreed. "Grace and cleverness and guile."

Mycroft nodded. "I was lucky to pull out when I did," he said. He'd recently handed in his and Anthea's resignations...not that they were gone from government entirely. Mycroft had taken a page from Sherlock's book, and chosen to promote himself as a "consulting intelligence analyst." "It allows me to be somewhat more selective regarding my assignments than I would otherwise find possible," he'd admitted to Lestrade...and then stunned the other man by offering him a place in the newly formed consulting agency.

Lestrade had turned it down, though he'd agreed happily enough to be the consultant's consultant. "Hire me on as you need me, Mr. Holmes. But I don't need the cover the same way you do. Brexit and that bastard Trump aren't going to make the same kind of demands of me that they would of you. You're better out of it. Me...I just decided to finally accept that Detective Chief Inspector spot they've been offering me. Up a level and a step sideways, and I'm largely out of the line of fire."

Mycroft had tsked and sighed. "The end of an era," he said, softly.

"Aye, well. Seasons come and go," Lestrade said, philosophically. "It's a new lot's turn to make dog's dinner of the world. Daresay they'll do as badly as our lot have. If we're lucky they'll do just enough worse that we'll be back in the driver's seats in our own life-times."

Mycroft grimaced. "The alternative has a certain graveyard aura worthy of my brother at his worst...and gives new meaning to a skeleton administration."

Now they stood together in the cool night air, listening to three strangers make music mere yards away.

Lestrade sighed. It wasn't what he'd have expected of his life back in his wild youth. Here he was on a fire escape, at Sherlock Holmes' New Years party, just one more of the lost and lonely gathered together at Molly Hooper's decree: Sherlock's "friends." Those too bright and too odd to ever quite fit in, but too excellent in their skills to escape Sherlock's predatory opportunism. He himself had selected between three primary choices--go to a pub and try to pull a shag for the night; attend the MET New Years gathering at the Three Feathers; or bow to Molly's command. He had no wife. No children. Few mates who could be trusted with more than fractions of his real life. Why not attend Sherlock's do? 

On the rooftop three women built a chord together, each finding a place in the tight-packed harmony they planned. The triad sounded out, carrying over the patter and jangle of the Indian music below, and then began...

Of all the money that e'er I spent

I spent it in good company

And of all the harm that e'er I've done

Alas, it was to none but me..."

  


"Ah, God. If only..." It breathed out of Mycroft in pain, and grief, and regret--the sound of mourning. 

Lestrade, with a similar life-tally, winced, and lowered his head over his mug. "Shite..."

The voices singing together mourned no less than the two men below. They ached with it, grieved with it. Whoever they were, they'd known loss, and sorrow. People they'd loved had died, and died hard. People they missed would never return. Actions they'd taken in hope and faith had withered and died in loss and shame. Their voices were not young--instead they were three norns, who knew too well the end of each thread, no less their own than anyone's. 

A lass may drink and not be drunk

A lass may fight and not be slain

A lass may court a bonny love

And perhaps be welcomed back again...

  


Or not.  Lestrade could hear it in their voices--you could love with all your heart, and still be rejected. You could fight and die. You could drink and fall at the side of the road, too lost in the booze to rise again. 

"Who the fuck writes these songs?" Mycroft snarled, and turned to claw one-handed at the window-sash.

Lestrade reached out, grabbed his arm, and said, "The worst is coming--but then it's done. But, no--there's not one damned gentle verse in all the lot--not one that doesn't hide a dagger in it for men like us."

And, oh, God, it was true. Mycroft gasped as the lyrics came, and they stood like men at Remembrance day, stiff with pain. And then it was done.

Mycroft shivered. "No comrade who would not grieve my passing. No lover who would not want me to stay longer. What a fucking fantasy..."

"Shut it, Holmes. None of us make it out intact--not even them." Greg nodded up toward the women. He could just see them on the rooftop, three women clinging together, holding each other tight against the pain of knowing that they fell short of their own song. "Who gets out of life loved by every comrade they've ever known? Welcomed by every lover? It's a drunkard's dream..." And yet...

Mycroft turned toward him, and said, softly, "Here--you're leaking." A handkerchief seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and he blotted Lestrade's face gently.

"I'm not crying, you're crying." Lestrade heard his voice shake, though. 

"The whole world cries at New Years--and then goes on in hope. We leave it behind and start over."

They stood so close, Lestrade thought. He slipped an arm around Mycroft's waist, with much the same easy camaraderie he'd shown fellow band members in his youth, other cops, friends and family his whole life long. He felt the shiver and the tension of the other man's mourning and loneliness. 

Neither had words. Not for the loneliness, not for the grief--and not for the comfort of each others' company. Instead they pulled each other close, clung together, orphans caught in life's tempest. No one would have mistaken it for anything but what it was--two battered souls hanging on tight to New Years companionship. Two battered veterans, wounded together, getting by as best they could.

Greg drew Mycroft in close, fingers knitted into the other man's fine jacket. He pressed his face into the line of Mycroft's shoulder--felt Mycroft likewise lean his face against Greg's head. 

There was whooping and joy from the interior of Sherlock's flat. Fireworks went off overhead. Lestrade thought he might, just possibly, hear Big Ben's tones over the sound of London's traffic, London's New Years party. The old year passed away, dropped from them, and fluttered into darkness. The new year whispered hope...and the embrace between the two men changed.

"Turn your face up," Mycroft murmured.

Lestrade hesitated, then did.

It was a gentle kiss--but far from chaste. It lingered, flavored with cigarettes and brandy and the odd selection of foods laid out for the party. 

"Come home with me," Lestrade said, when they rose for air.

"Gladly," Mycroft agreed.

As they walked away from 221B Baker Street together, into the dark of the new year's dawning, they heard the music rise once more--three women's voices, sweet and crushed and heady as winter cider.

But since it falls unto our lot

That we should rise and you should not

We'll gently rise and gently call

"Good night, and joy be with you all."

  


  


  


  


  


  



End file.
